The Writer and The Artist: The Gift

Chapter 4: The Gift

 

THE GIFT

 

1

 

They had reached the twentieth painting before Laura insisted they sat down for a break. Reminiscing each momentous memory in turn was tiring and yet strangely therapeutic as her sorrow began to settle, bringing a new fervour of exhilaration which at times replaced her grief for John.

For the remainder of the afternoon she sat with Ethan in the view room and went through painting after painting. Selecting a painting in the chronological order of which it was painted, she would tell Ethan of each instance when she had painted each picture: how she felt; what her husband had felt; what the moment meant to them both. Every snippet of information was brought to the forefront of her consciousness – perfect pieces of memory from the past brought together into a complete present jigsaw. And as she talked, Ethan intently listened, never failing to be amazed by the swirling movements of colour within every painting they viewed.

Sometimes a smile or two would be raised between them as a moment of happiness was touched upon within the meaning of a painting. At times they would both forget the ambiguous task they faced to begin a search for John, somewhere amongst the abundance of pictures. But this unkind reality would pinch them into focus. When they would share a frown as Laura imagined how John would always be so close to her: sitting at the kitchen table; playing with her hair as they snuggled on the sofa; lying together side by side in bed, as he would recall to her each particular image. Ethan felt her pain as though he could reach out and touch it. But throughout it all, he also sensed something else. At the time, he could not put his finger on it.

 

After she had reviewed the fifth painting they came to, Laura stopped and realised what was happening.

            ‘I can remember everything to do with each painting and yet every basic moment of life around these paintings feels just like a simple blur of memory. You would have thought I could only remember a certain number of paintings; perhaps specific ones that were more special than the rest...but no! Each of these paintings I seem to remember twofold, as though I’m reading from a diary.’

            ‘Such is the magic of your gift, Laura,’ Ethan had replied.

 

2

 

Six-o-clock came and went, with John nowhere to be seen. By this time Laura had reached the fifty-first painting. They had barely noticed the sun set and darkness punctured by the glimmer of orange street lamps. There were so many paintings left to talk about and yet Laura knew there could never be enough time to view them all. She had simply begun to learn the importance of every detail in her paintings – the gateways. That was enough for now.

            As she finished talking of ‘Cosy’, the painting of all John’s friends and family sitting around a living room, drinking wine and after dinner snacks (it had been the time when John had spent the time with his parents and grandparents one evening when Laura was away – what had intrigued John the most was that neither of them had seen such a living room in their life), Ethan decided it was time to call it a day.

            ‘I agree,’ she said, checking her watch and was surprised to find it read 21:43. As she looked up, she then noticed the hollow smile placed upon his eyes. ‘Something the matter?’

            ‘Yes,’ he replied, wondering whether to laugh or cry. ‘I just realised I have no recollection of where I live.’

            They gazed at each other’s reactions for a few seconds, wondering how they could possibly react to such a bizarre situation.

            And then they started to snigger. Laura bit her lip with a slight grin, as Ethan covered his mouth. ‘Weird, isn’t it?’ he said, as their giggles fell to a smile.

            ‘Sure is,’ Laura replied. She then without hesitation offered Ethan to sleep on the sofa, to which Ethan had no choice but happily accepted. ‘Ethan?’ she then said.

            ‘Laura?’

‘Show me.’

            ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, tilting his head.

            ‘Show me what its like,’ she said, as she faced the painting atop her lap, ‘to be in a painting.’

            ‘Laura,’ Ethan replied, ‘we are both tired. We should only begin the search when we are fully ready and once we have found our first clue – the gateway that will lead us in. And there is something else.’ He stopped, seeing the anticipation on her face. ‘Stepping into just any of these paintings will not bring you to John. It will only bring you to the John of that moment: the feelings and the expressions that you painted at that time.’ He paused again. ‘You can’t replace John with those paintings, for they will never be the complete man you married.’

            She continued to gaze at Cosy, wishing more than anything that she could be within that painting. But she already knew Ethan was right. ‘You seem to forget, Ethan,’ she said, clutching the painting in her arms. ‘I know my husband very well. I would know my real husband amongst the fakes.’

She smiled at him. ‘Show me tomorrow, then?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, getting up off the floor ‘Once you realise where to begin, we will enter the first painting.’

 

3

 

Once you realise where to begin. The dream that night gave the first clue.

            Hours after Ethan had gone to sleep in the living room across the hall, Laura had waited until he was asleep before she returned to the view room alone. She continued to plough through the depths of her memory for every single detail of each painting. She fought through emotional tiredness and battled with her mind to recall everything out loud, as though Ethan were still there with her.

            After the seventieth painting (or was it seventy-one? She might have lost count), Laura thought to herself, ‘Is he an angel?’ But she then laughed it off and carried on.

            She did not know exactly what she was looking for, yet she felt that looking through each painting would help her come to terms with the extent of her search and how hard she must try to find John again.

Although she knew she could not go through every single painting; it would take forever. This thought crept into her mind and started plaguing her thoughts with questions: What if I missed something? What if I end up having to go through each painting, again and again? And exactly how long does John have in his coma, before he slips way…forever?

These thoughts disheartened her progress and she suddenly stopped. Without realising, the room was smothered in darkness and the light was switched off. She was completely alone; her paintings looked across at her in silence.

Laura got up and walked out into the hallway, the light above her head made her eyes flicker. Gazing down at her watch in a dreamy stupor, she found it read 22:50. She closed her weary eyes and sighed.

She dreaded going to sleep, with only a cold pillow to cuddle.

 

4

 

The room; her mind; her life; all a void of silence; emptiness; loneliness.

            The plain white ceiling of the bedroom became her only source of focus. She dare not look across the room, to the empty space where her husband would rest and hold her in his arms.

            It was the spark of hope that led her drifting over seas of dreams.